Fire and Ashes
by kanmuri
Summary: From the moment he opened his eyes, flame was all he knew.


Title: Fire and Ashes

Disclaimer: Ooh boy. Kazuki Takahashi owns Yuugiou, and 4Kids... does not? I'm still kinda confused at what's going on with that...

Pairings: Meh, if you squint you can see it, but I really don't like pairing a seven-year-old and a nine-year-old together, sorry.

Summary: From the moment he opened his eyes, flame was all he knew.

A/N: Republished because it was deleted for some reason. :/

Warnings: Psychopathy, run-on sentences and second person POV liek whoa.

* * *

><p>You're eight years old, body slim and sharp as the desert that crafted you, skin darkened and tough from the blazing sun. You're what someone might call beautiful, or would be, except for the long, spidery scars that crawl their way up and down your back. You own more of those than months you've lived, and nothing else. You've learned long ago that the desert owns <em>you.<em>

When the caravan finds you, you're half-dead, a scrawny little thing that has been wasted by the gritty sand and thirst. You're weak from hunger, but still you struggle and scream until your yet unbroken voice gives way and you slip into a deep sleep. It's two days and a million miles from home before you wake again.

They take you to the palace to be judged (though you're not sure why, you haven't done anything). You aren't judged directly by the Pharaoh, but you feel a burning so intense at the sight of the priests that your legs nearly give out from under you (they pass it off as weakness, but inside you know it will one day become your greatest strength).

You're immediately sentenced to slavery within the palace. They tell you that you stole something, but since you're a child, it's been decided that the only solution is to put you to work. You know you're innocent, but there's food here, and shelter, and so you go with it. You're not so stupid that your pride clouds your survival instincts, yet.

It's sometime around your ninth year that a striking boy who's maybe a year or two younger than you crosses your path, and you are immediately shoved to your knees before the child you realize is the young prince Atem. You bow your head to hide the sneer that twists your lips.

Atem scans the line of slaves with the disinterest of child. "You there," he says finally. "The one with the scars."

You look up, slightly surprised, slightly irritated. But all you can say is, "Yes, my Prince?"

"Come with me."

He wants to play a game with you, is that it? Well, you'll give him a game.

You'll give him a game.

And soon he'll see who cries for mercy.

You play all out, even though you know that if you win, you'll probably be whipped. But the sting of the rope against your flesh is nothing, nothing to willingly losing, and so you play as hard as you can.

He wins in the end, and you snarl in disappointment but leave the table without a word. There are some things not worth fighting for.

There are some things worth everything for.

There are some things worth nothing.

He finds you the next day and you play a different game, and somewhere deep inside you know you're just a tool to fight his boredom but you give it your all again anyway, because you also know you need to win. You don't know why but you know you do, and that's enough. The pattern repeats day after day and you keep fighting because it's enough.

The games usually pass silently, his straight black brows narrowed in concentration, beads of sweat from the heat breaking out on his flawless caramel skin. You, leaning closer as the deep scar beneath your eye stretches in a smirk. But one day it's different, different and your not sure you like the change very much.

"Your eyes are strange, slave," he says in that smooth, honey-coated voice of his.

For a moment, you're stunned.

That's not what he's supposed to say.

He gives you that face that's half-way between a smirk and a smile, and you know he has you, he has you and you can't break free of him no matter how hard you fight, no matter how loud you scream. It's like when they took you from your home and family, only this time it's not a dull ache but a piercing pain.

"I – I don't think you're really one to talk, Great Prince," you return, pleased that your voice contains none of the shock or fear you feel, pleased at that singing, mocking note that slides through your words. But really, you'd understand if he'd called your skin strange, or your hair (rendered stark by a demon that had stolen the breath from your lungs in the first years, you've been told). Your eyes are the most normal thing about you. What is this boy playing at?

It's a game, then.

It's always a game.

And you have no idea how to play.

Atem laughs, scarlet eyes crinkling in humour. "I s'pose. But I spoke of the nature of your eyes, not the colour." And he leans close, suddenly, inexplicably serious. "There is flame in your eyes, slave. Have you noticed? They burn with rage and hatred and hurt. They're young that way, but they also remind me of my father's. So old. So sad." He draws back, and you feel your breath hitch, just a little. "What say you?"

You say nothing, because his words have frozen you like the night winds. You are so confused, so lost, so broken that your mind is a clean slate of nothing. Finally, your lips part. "I'll have you in three moves," you say.

And the game continues.

* * *

><p>The winds change, and so do you. You find yourself shooting up amongst the other child slaves. Tall for your age, they say. But never to your face. Never to you.<p>

You prefer it this way, really. The voices of the living might as well be the whispers of the breeze, for all you care. They mean nothing to you. They hiss and cry and scream about you, and you have no care for them, none at all.

_Rami's gone missing,_ they say, and they stare at you and you ignore them. What do they matter?

You ignore them and you focus on the game you're playing, and it's your favourite game, really it is. And if you're caught, well. You could probably play this game with those who would be flogging you. It's very simple game, after all.

So simple.

So, so complicated.

You run the knife you stole from kitchen along the frog's bottom left leg, and smile. Then in one fluid movement you rip it from the creature's torso and drop it with the other two legs you've collected. The frog croaks and struggles, and you laugh.

Because it's funny, really, this game.

It's funny, really.

This life.

Is there a difference?

Not much.

And your laughs are lost to the changing winds.

* * *

><p><em>It's the Great Prince's seventh birthday<em>_,_ they say, their voices hushed with excitement. You feel a scowl twist your lips and continue working as if you've heard nothing. Atem will probably want to play with you, just so he can humiliate you in front of the hundreds of people at the festival.

Of course, that could all change if you beat him, just this once.

Your heart flutters and you're glad of it.

You help serve those seated around the table, keeping your eyes on the floor as a proper slave should, inwardly rejoicing over the victory you'll have tonight. You may die for it, but you think it would be worth it, just this once.

Your eyes are on the floor, so at first you're not sure why your head suddenly starts to burn, flames licking around your thoughts. And then a voice, so quiet, like a breath of air sweeps through your ears, and you can barely hear it but it's the first real voice you've heard in _so long_ and you want to hold onto it forever and so you do exactly what it says.

You look up at Atem. He stares back at you. And suddenly there is nothing but fire in your eyes.

With a scream, you lunge, not caring that you bear no weapon, that there are hundreds of people watching, that you'll probably die very soon. You lunge at him and to everyone else it appears like your reaching for his neck to steal his life, like the thief they say you are. But though you only see flame, you know what it is you really want to take.

Someone grabs your shoulders and rips you of the young prince, and someone's screaming and someone's crying but it's okay because you have your prize. And though it burns your hands like so many other things, you cup the Millennium Pendant tightly and laugh quietly yourself.

Because just this once, you've won.

Just this once.

You don't hold the Pendant for long, because suddenly you're thrown to your feet and the wretched thing is gone from your hands. And they beat you, and it's the worst beating you've ever had and all the old scars sliding up your back begin to bleed, and oh, gods there's blood everywhere and there's tears gathering in the corners of your eyes but you don't cry, you don't cry because you're dying and you've been through much, much worse.

_Be strong, _the voices whisper, warm in your mind. _Hold on._

Eventually the beatings stop and you're taken for judgement in the thrown room. This time it's the Pharaoh who's judging you, the Pharaoh himself. You should be excited. And you are, really. Because once again there's fire in your mind, and you're beginning to realize that you can hear those warm, welcoming, familiar voices best through the flames.

"Speak, boy," the Pharaoh commands, but you notice a tiredness behind his eyes that no living god should have. "What is your name?"

"Don't know, sir," you chirp back cheerfully. "Most people just call me 'slave'."

There's a brief pause, and then the Pharaoh asks, "Where are you from then, slave?"

You answer, and to your horror your voice catches a little on the words. _No, no, no tears. Anger. Anger at those who ripped you from your home._

But it doesn't matter, because suddenly there's a great quiet that stretches across the room into forever. The sadness behind the Pharaoh's eyes seems to you to glisten slightly, but that could just be the light. Finally, he finds his voice, and you think, what an accomplishment, to reduce a living god to tears.

"…Tell me exactly what he has done," he says to one of the priests.

The priest addressed immediately straightens. "Great Pharaoh, this boy attacked your son and attempted to steal the Millennium Pendant. Not only that," he leans closer and his voice drops, but you take pleasure in the fact that you can still hear him quite clearly, "…he has many times been accused of theft among the slave quarters, and with good reason, I believe. Those from his village…"

"'Didn't steal nothing," you say loudly, like the insolent brat you are. For once, it's the truth. You are many things, but you are not a thief.

You laugh inwardly at the priest's expression. Such disrespect before the Great Pharaoh! A slave who actually speaks! Death must come quickly!

But what does it matter, really. You're going to die anyway. You'd rather die like a person than some mindless domestic animal.

The priest raises his hand to strike you and you reward him with your most winning smile, not bothering to brace yourself from the blow. But then, there is a single word spoken, so quiet even you with your excellent ears can barely hear.

"…No," the Great Pharaoh whispers, and you are shocked to find actual tears streaming down his face, his shoulders shaking slightly. He stands from his throne. "No more from this boy's village will die."

And once again, you find yourself stunned.

That's not what he's supposed to say.

You stare and stare, and try to figure out if maybe the gods actually have something in store for you, that they would let you live this day. You leave the palace under heavy guard and strict orders to never ever look at Atem again, and you wonder about the game the Pharaoh himself played against you today, and who exactly won.

You suppose just this once that it doesn't matter.

* * *

><p>It's about a week later that you begin to get bored.<p>

Oh, not that there's not enough to do. Since Atem's birth festival, your workload has been doubled. What bores you is that there is no one intelligent enough among the slaves to really challenge you mind, not even the guards.

And so, later that night you sneak out to see Atem.

You find him in his rooms, wiping the kohl from his face with a tired expression. He actually looks about as bored as you feel, and you think, hey, I'm killing two birds with one stone, here.

"Yo," you say.

You expect him to jump. You expect him to possibly even scream. What you don't expect is the slight jerk of his head, and then him swivelling to face you with raised eyebrows and an open jaw.

It's just the perfect blend between the 'wah!' face and the 'really?' face that you can't help it, you crack up, laughing until you're pretty sure more than one of the wounds on your back has split open and is bleeding everywhere, and that just makes you laugh all the harder. In the corner of your vision, Atem's face has grown slightly sterner and more serious, but the slight quirk of his lips is enough to remind that despite his recent birthday he hasn't grown up just yet.

"How did you manage to get in here?" he demands when your insane cackling has finally quietened to the occasional cough. "There are guards everywhere, I thought -"

"Oh, please," you say, rolling your eyes, and hop down from the edge of the balcony. "Don't tell me those guys actually get _paid _for what they do. They're imbeciles, really, every single one of them." You snort and begin to look about the so-called Great Prince's bedroom, eyeing a stray piece of golden jewellery.

Atem instantly snatches it up, glaring at you hotly. "You're not supposed to be here."

"What, you weren't bored without me?"

"You tried to _kill_ me!"

You're quiet at that. Then, turning away with a scowl, you mutter, "It's your own fault for wearing that stupid necklace, anyway."

Atem's hands automatically wander down to cradle the Pendent. "What did you say?" he demands, but his voice is a scared whisper. You take a quiet victory in that.

"Nothing," you tell him, and hop back up on the balcony, ready to jump down and return to slave quarter. A hand on your shoulder stops you.

Atem's hands are warm and baby-soft, not roughened by days of work or even dried out by the sun. His hands would tell a complete stranger that he has never held a hammer a day in his life.

His hand brushes across the scar tissue on your left shoulder blade, skin so rough and heavily burned it's a wonder it's still there anymore. You still, and stare into his strange red eyes.

"What's your name?" he asks, and his voice, though still a whisper, is strong and steady.

"…I don't have one," you admit, after a moment. "I did, once."

"How did you lose it?" And you see childishness there, a childishness you've never seen before. Not for the first time, you're stunned by the fact that this living-god–to-be only turned seven today.

You stare at Atem, at this impossibly wise child, and look down at yourself. Your skin is rough and scarred, and what little baby fat you once had has been beaten out of you long ago. You have done things men have done, seen things men might break down at seeing.

You are a man.

You are a child.

Just a child.

"It burned," you answer finally, and it doesn't matter that your breath catches in your throat, or that your eyes are slightly damp. "My name burned, with everything else. And no one alive has a right to use it."

Atem seems to consider this. "Well then, we'll just have take make you a new name, I guess," he says, and leads you down off the balcony. "We can't just keep going around calling you 'hey, you'."

You smirk. "Whatever happened to 'slave'? Or 'little brat'? Or -" You catch yourself abruptly. There are some words you've been called that no child should hear, Great Prince or not.

Atem, for his part, ignores you. "What do you think of Idorad?"

"That's not a name!" you accuse. "Those are just sounds you put together."

Atem shrugs shamelessly. "Does it really matter?"

You blink, taken aback at the young prince's odd approach. After a moment, you shrug. "No, I suppose not."

"Hey, I've got it!" Atem exclaims suddenly. "How about -"

"Great Prince! What… ?"

And you find yourself once again being led away to be flogged. It hurts even worse now that your wounds are fresh, but really, you can't bring yourself to care all that much.

* * *

><p>The pattern continues, the guards growing in numbers, traps being set, with you effortlessly slipping past each and every obstacle in your way. You're good at traps, you're fast, you're sneaky. It leaves some in awe, others in deep suspicion, still others whispering things like, <em>it's no surprise what he can do, considering where he's from. <em>

As usual, you pay them no mind, because it's become a kind of game between you and the guards, and games are always good, especially this game because you win all the time. And you do your work and you get whipped and the Pharaoh always sends you back to the slave quarter, for whatever reason.

And you visit Atem.

Sometimes, you play games. Sometimes, you laugh and tease and pull pranks on each other. And sometimes, it's cold and wet and Atem's sobbing about how the gods obviously don't want him to hold the Millennium Pendent, why won't his father just take it away from him, please.

But every night, you sneak away, and every night you can count at least one more scar on your back; or at least you would, if anyone had ever taught you how. And every night, Atem grows just a little older.

But one night, the winds change again.

* * *

><p>"You insolent little brat!"<p>

Someone's grabbed you by the hair, is shaking you roughly. It's one of the few times you've ever actually not known what's going on, and you hate to admit it but it frightens you more than anything ever has.

You're led (more like shoved) to the throne room, dropped like a sack of grain before the Great Pharaoh. He's looking older, you notice suspiciously. Older even than Siamon, and that's saying a lot.

"I've had enough, Great Pharaoh!" the man whom you've come to know as Aknenhadin spits. "Stealing from slaves is one thing, but when he steals the Pharaoh's personal gold, I think that's quite enough!"

You look from Aknenhadin, to the Pharaoh, to your hands, bewildered. You've never stolen anything in your life, despite what people say. You may be dishonourable, but you are _not a thief_. You know all too well what it's like to have something and nothing and everything stolen from you.

"Great Pharaoh," you begin, and are silenced by a firm strike to the face.

"Did the Great Pharaoh say you could speak," Aknenhadin hisses.

The Pharaoh raises a silencing hand. "What proof do you have of this, Aknenhadin?"

"Here!" And you stare as Aknenahdin shoves gold coins in the Pharaoh's face. "These were found in the slave quarter earlier this morning. And there are several witnesses claiming they saw him with the gold. It is an obvious case of thievery."

No, no, you think, this isn't possible, you awoke outside this morning, unable to make it to the slave quarter from all the beatings you received last night. Why won't anyone stand up for you? Is there something wrong with you? Why does everyone think you're a thief?

Yes, you realize, there is something wrong with you.

There is something very wrong with you.

Very wrong.

You exist.

The fire stirs in your mind again, the ashes cooled by long nights speaking with Atem. _You know what happened to your village,_ the voices whisper in your ears, _You know. Deep inside, you know that there is something very wrong._

Aknenhadin has gone still, so still, and it's almost funny, his face. Almost.

"The boy…" he whispers, trails off. "He speaks with the dead."

_Is that what they call it? _you wonder. _Funny thing, language._

And suddenly there's fire everywhere, burning through the palace, through the guards and the pillars and walls. Fire from your mind, from the ghosts you speak to. Fire, like the fire that tore through your village the day everything burned.

Fire, like the fire that burned your name so that only the dead could speak it.

"What are you, boy?" the Pharaoh demands fearfully.

And you smile, and you know it's absolutely terrifying, because it's the same smile you saw your father wear the night of the sacrifices. "You said it," you tell him. "I'm a thief. Now, anyway. And you know what the first thing I'm going to steal is?" Your eyes narrow dangerously. "Your lives."

And they run, they run while you laugh and the fire grows in towers. "That's right!" you cry. "Run, and remember this name: Bakura! The King of Thieves!"

_Those are just sounds you put together! _Atem shouts in your mind, but his face is quickly burned away by the flames.

You have no doubt that when you return, the Great Prince will have no memory of any of this, anyway.

And does it matter?

It doesn't matter.

Nothing matters.

In the end, you don't get away with it. In the end, the very Millennium Items you swore to destroy are used against you. But as you run from the burning palace, you know that one day, you will win this game. Because the stronger the fire in your mind grows, the stronger the voices of the ghosts grow, and someday you're going to pay _them_ back for everything they've done to you, for everything they've stolen from you.

They've stolen your family, your friends, your home. They've stolen cool desert nights out under the stars, and warm blankets tucked tightly around your thin body. They've stolen your memories of happiness. They've stolen your name.

And you swear on your life that one day, you are going _to pay them back_.

* * *

><p>:owari:<p> 


End file.
